Last night my plans to go to sleep at a regular hour were foiled by a novella that weaseled its way into my book of short stories. It's not like I can just stop reading and sleep before I'm done!

(Did you know that Orson Scott Card wrote Foundation-universe fan-fiction? I read the books years ago, so for the first few pages of "The Originist" I just kept thinking "hmm, this is awfully familiar for some reason...")

I ended up getting five hours of sleep, and drinking a week's worth of caffeine when I got to work. Enough that so, once the headache passed, I was frantic and excitable.

(Is there a more emasculating phrase than "emergency tea"? I think that it beats "effeminate eyelashes" handily. Though most of the longer girlie drink names would probably still destroy it. There's a whole master's thesis to be written on "the Busticator" as a reaction to the "Sex on the Beach.")

Too much caffeine. I'm going to have to assume that I was irritating all day; I remember interposing myself unnecessarily into at least a half-dozen conversations.

But I also started up an informal "Ann Coulter Hate Haiku" contest that shall live in infamy. There is that.

As for the other real world, the manic dissatisfaction I mentioned in the previous post has... tempered itself, largely because as tired as I am, I simply lack the energy for it. Nevertheless, it's clear to me that in three or four month's time I want some important aspect of my life, take your pick, to have significantly improved. I think that's doable. It should almost be a given, when you think about it. And that timeline all-too-conveniently removes prettymuch all pressure for the time being.